Right In Two
by DarkToLight
Summary: To begin with, Altair had only found the novices amusing. But, as he continued along his mission of redemption, he began to understand just what he was to them. -no pairing- -rating for safety-


I'm returning to fanfiction with a foray into a new series - Assassin's Creed! I also tried out a slightly new writing style, a kind of "broken thoughts" type narrative.

This fic stuck in my head when I finished playing and refused to go away, so I scribbled it down. There are **no pairings** in this story. There's also a couple of inaccuracies at the end because I wrote it before I played AC2, but I haven't the heart to change it.

So, let me know how you think the style turned out. Good? Bad? Beginnings of something good? Usually I avoid brackets like anathema, so...

Side note - it is very, very hard to get inside Altair's head. Gah.

**Disclaimer**: Assassin's Creed and all the characters belong to Ubisoft. I make no money from this. etc., etc. ad nauseum.

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Right in Two

_[To begin with, he just found it slightly amusing]_

It was when he was in Jerusalem. This was his third (or fourth, but he didn't really count the joke of a hunt in Masyaf) mission since his demotion, his humiliation, and although he still felt a little resentment, he was beginning to settle into the routine of the novice assassin. He had ignored Malik's harsh words – he didn't care what they thought, or so he told himself – he had scaled every high tower and building the district had to offer, he had removed several sets of corrupt guards from the streets, and he felt ready to begin his search.

Altair had little patience for informers, especially with his experiences so far in Acre. They were beneath him (or had been, he reminded himself, even if he did not feel it he was still working his way back up) and usually in need of some kind of aid, or providing him with a joke of a challenge, like finding flags. Flags! Pathetic.

He'd found a lot of information about the merchant Talal. In fact, he was on his way back to the Bureau, it was only by chance that he saw the young assassin looking frightened in a corner. Feeling intrigued despite himself, he dropped into the haycart, jumped out and jogged over to the corner.

"What troubles you, brother?" He asked, trying (and failing) to keep his usual gruffness from his voice. He had never been one for kindness (he was an assassin, wasn't kindness overrated, an emotion to stay your blade?) but he did not want to startle this young man into flight.

"Ah!" The young man exclaimed, shying away in fright, then took a second look and his eyes widened. "M-master Altair?" Altair resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Oh! Please help me!" He begged, hands clasped together almost pathetically. "I was on a mission, but… I… I messed up; some of Talal's men saw me… Please, Master Altair, could you take care of them? I can tell you all I know of Talal if you do!" He seemed rather pathetic, begging for his life, but Altair found he almost understood his feelings. No man wanted to die, and he was a brother. He could beg aid of a brother in exchange for information.

"All right," Altair agreed, fingers of his left hand ghosting over the release mechanism of his hidden blade. He could help this man (pathetic, begging, desperate) and also help himself; not only would the information be of use, but Talal would be a few men down.

"Oh! Thank you! You will know them instantly, Talal dresses his men in different armour to the Guard," the young assassin enthused. He had a look of forlorn hope on his face. "…Please be quick," he added in a small voice. This time, Altair _did_ roll his eyes, and sighed.

"Wait here," he told him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I will kill the men and return as swiftly as I can." The assassin nodded, and Altair turned and walked away.

Searching wasn't so hard. When he was at full strength he could sense intent (although it took a lot of energy to do so) and he could tell friend from foe, guard from enemy. Eagle vision, some of those he had trained with had called it; the ability to pick out your prey unerringly from even the largest of crowds.

A blade in the back of one man's neck, hand over his mouth (to muffle those death screams), turn and walk away, hands itching for a knife to find the heart of the next man. He wanted to curse his master for robbing him of his weapons, but he knew in his heart that it was himself he should curse, the arrogant man who had thought himself above the creed. He wasn't certain he understood quite yet exactly what his master meant when he lectured him on things he scorned, but one day he thought he would, in fact, he must.

He approached the second man as if they were lifelong friends, the Guards nearby suspecting nothing, his hand was a gag and his blade caressed a line across his throat. He walked away as if nothing had happened, leaving the unfortunate to fall to the floor. The guards cried out in horror, but Altair was already lost, already a blade hidden in the crowd.

The young assassin flinched away again as he approached, but visibly relaxed when he saw Altair.

"It is done, then?" He asked querulously. Altair inclined his head once. The assassin's eyes widened. "And not even a mark upon you! Truly you are a master!" he praised. Altair found himself growing irritated.

"If you must praise someone, make it someone worthy," he responded in his usual snappish tone. He had no airs about himself, he knew what he could do and knew his limits, if they were greater than those of everyone else, then so be it. Al Mualim had taught him (Along with Robert, in his own way) that arrogance blunted a blade.

"You are more than worthy, Master," the assassin insisted. "May fortune favour your blade when you face Talal." Altair could not prevent the frown, remembering that fateful day in the temple, when he had taken the life of an innocent, and Malik had said the same. It had only been the start of his downfall. (His own fault though really, warning a Templar of attack, how arrogant, how stupid, how naïve…)

He grunted in response and walked off.

The second time he was in Jerusalem, it was to assassinate Majd Addin. The streets seemed to be populated by more guards than usual, although that was partly to be expected, what with the continuing war between Salah Ad-dihn and King Richard. (Richard was approaching Jaffa, and, as he had heard many a town crier proclaim, if he took Jaffa there would be no stopping him).

This time (after a slightly more civil talk with Malik) he set to his task of information with his customary attention to detail. An assassin who did not use everything he could swiftly became a dead assassin, and he had no desire to join their ranks. He was only in the middle of his 'redemption quest' (as if his life was worth nine), he could not afford to falter now.

He recognised the young assassin as soon as he saw him, although he did not know his name (had never asked, he never did). The man (or boy, Altair supposed, he didn't look so old) was hiding in a half-ruined or half-built building (Altair couldn't tell which), trembling and half-hugging himself. Altair sighed, and dropped down in front of him. The young assassin started, hands instantly flying into defensive position.

"Oh God please don't kill me," he jibbered, before looking up in surprise when a swift death did not follow. "M-master Altair! Oh, thank God!" He exclaimed, falling to his knees in relief.

"What troubles you, brother?" Altair asked, entirely unmoved by the young assassin's relief. He was a man who lived by what he knew. The assassin clasped his hands together.

"There are foul deeds afoot in the city, master. Templars," he responded. Altair's expression didn't change, but the hatred rose in him nonetheless. It was like bile at the back of his throat, a red-hot, burning desire to kill that left the taste of iron in his mouth. _Templars._ "They are after me, Master Altair, I encountered them while on a mission and attempted to rid the city of them, but… but…" He shied away at the memory, and that let Altair see the dark red stain, hidden mostly by the young man's belt.

"They hurt you," Altair remarked, his voice making it sound like nothing more than an observation. Inside he was angry, bitterly angry that the Templars had hurt one of his brothers. At least this time, he could take no portion of guilt for that, not like with Malik, but still…

"I was not good enough to defeat them, but you, master, I know you could kill them!" The assassin enthused, getting to his feet. "There are only three of them, master, you will know them! I have heard tales-" Altair held up a hand, and he stopped, surprised.

"I will kill them," he agreed. "But you must return to Malik immediately." The assassin seemed troubled.

"But I can help you… And if they catch me…" The fear was still showing in his eyes. Altair sighed.

"Very well. Wait here, do not move an inch. I will return in a few minutes," he promised. The young assassin nodded, hopeful, and Altair turned and walked away, a graceful, fluid motion, and within seconds he was lost in the crowd.

His blade found the Templars who had hurt his Brother with a vicious satisfaction, although there was no difference to his outward actions. These people, whose blades had been wetted with assassin's blood, these men who served a cause he could not condone. He hated them, the Templars. He would always hate them, even if the anger could dull his blade and make him not strike true. He wondered at that, as he ran his fingers over the release mechanism (typical of when he thought). Did the hate keep him human? As long as his emotion did not affect his work (like with Robert, and it was not he who paid the price for that, he had a life and a half on his conscience), it was fine to feel. To not be a killer, a cold blade.

The young assassin was almost pathetically thankful for his life. Altair dismissed his thanks and walked with him back to the bureau, to remove the guard's attention. Two scholars (And one of them at least was not visibly armed), going to spread peace and faith amongst the people. That was all they were.

"Altair! What nonsense is this?" Malik demanded as he walked in with the young assassin. "If I didn't know better I'd say you were being altruistic!" Altair grunted.

"He has been injured by Templars. Tend to him. I have work to do," he responded gruffly.

"Wait! I can-" The young assassin started, but Altair waved him silent.

"If I need your information I will hear it when I return. Rest now. The blades of Templars cut deep," he advised. The young assassin looked disappointed, but nodded all the same, and Malik shook his head in wonder.

"Sometimes I am truly surprised by you," he remarked. "And here I thought you were a selfish fool." Altair glanced at him, uncaring (at least outwardly).

"I have work to do," he muttered, leaving without a proper response.

He was there again on Altair's final trip to Jerusalem. This time he was not in trouble himself, having learned from his past mistake, but pointed Altair to the Templars all the same, telling him what he could. Altair told him to return to Masyaf. The boy was young, and things would likely get ugly when Altair (God willing) killed Robert de Sable, and he found himself not wanting the youth caught up in the fighting. He had seen Sibrand's madness in Acre kill a holy man and seen others thrown to the sea; he did not want the wrathful blades of more sane Templars to find his apparent protégé again. He did not understand, as the assassin met his words with acceptance and praise, what the youth thought there was to admire about him. He had probably been hero-worshipped before, being the master assassin that he was, but he had never actually encountered it in person before, seen the adoration and praise lavished upon him for his skills by those still training. It was so strange, to see the light in that young man's eyes and realise that he was the figure the youth was striving to be, he was the one they wanted to be like, he was the master they wanted to emulate. Now that he understood the truth of the Creed, the reasons for its tenants and the phrase Al Mualim so often said, he realised how poor a model he had been to them, and it made him feel… Guilty. Guilty for showing these young men the wrong path, guilty for taking Malik's career away from him and all the verbal spats they'd had because of his arrogance, guilty for the loss of the life of a brother because he had thought himself unbeatable… Guilty for so many crimes, some big, some small. After today, God willing, he would once more be a true master, and this time he would see them, he would show them what an assassin really should be. He would help them to understand the creed, and, when he walked the city streets on a mission for the brotherhood, he would help them as he had been so far. He would not give any men the cause to hate him as one brother had, he would not show people the wrong path. He would be… an _assassin_. The flying eagle, the striking cat, the wise owl, the hidden blade. He would be all these things and more.

He galloped up to Masyaf, but halted his horse outside the gates and walked in on foot. It was so quiet, so eerily quiet, that his home did not seem like home at all. He saw a man – a brother! – brainwashed and blind, walked through a city of puppet-people. They were safe, he told himself, from the Saracens and the Crusaders. He had done one thing right. He had tried… He had tried! But oh, what damage he had managed to do from doing as he was told. Again, his fingers ghosted over the blade. A Templar. His master, a Templar. His blade, taking lives for a Templar. It made him feel sick.

_Every Templar in the Holy Land will die before I am done._

He let the anger wash over him, let its bitter taste fill him and make him sick with all he had done. It would make the deed the easier on his soul, what was left of it; he would take his anger to his master and show him what he thought of this mockery he had made of their creed and their brotherhood.

A Templar, his master!

He gripped the pommel of his new sword, the one his master had given him, as his brothers surrounded him. He knew he would have no choice. He would have to fight. He would have to give his blade the blood of his brothers, the people he was supposed to protect. His knuckles whitened with the force of his grip. He would never forgive Al Mualim for this.

His battle was a desperate one, not fought with his usual calm grace as he tried so hard not to kill the men who were single-mindedly focussed on drawing his blood. He wanted to scream at them to stop, to remember who they were, but he couldn't. All he could do was fight.

He knew the young assassin's face the minute he jumped down from the ridge, a mindless drone like the others who lay bleeding at Altair's feet. Altair could feel a part of his soul shattering as he drew his sword on them. He knew these people, he knew them like they were blood brothers and not just those he killed with, he had helped them, saved them, spoken with them and traded jibes and playful words. And yet there were so many, and there was only so much he could do, he knew some would die, some of these people he knew, because it was them or him.

He tried to avoid it, truly he did, but he winced every time he landed more than a glancing blow. He saw the man he had saved in Acre, who had promised to tell his family of Altair's bravery (sword through the chest), he saw the former training partner whose contempt had continually lessened to a thing like friendship (pommel of sword to the back of the head, at least it wasn't his blade), saw the young admirer whose life he had saved from Templars (knife to the arm, blade to the legs, it was possible he wouldn't walk again, would never be the master assassin he had longed to be). All the brothers he had known. Yes, he felt sick, sick and hot with anger, even as Malik cleared a path for him.

Words meant nothing. Altair knew this; he knew that they were hollow, empty things that were defined by one's actions only. His promises to his now-dead master meant nothing if he could not destroy this terrible, beautiful thing in front of him. He felt angry with _himself_ as he turned away from it, left it to Malik (one man who would never feel its corruption after what he had lost), and went down to the place where he had fought his brothers. He looked at the fallen, ignoring the blinking, confused expressions of those coming around from a mass illusion. (Mass betrayal, in fact).

"Nothing is true," he murmured, finding those few dead and closing their eyes, his touch soft, gentle. "Everything is permitted. But this… Not this." Malik gathered those he could and started to shout orders about at a confused populace (he would make a good leader of the brotherhood, Altair knew). Still, as he stood in the hospital, he felt sick. Here was the man with a wife and children (he'd pull through, be working again soon they hoped). Here was the man who had felt contempt for him once (concussed, and should be grateful for that only). And here was his admirer, the poor youth (too early to tell). All men, feeling men, free men, men who had had the one thing the assassins sought to preserve taken from them. As puppets, who could have peace? There could not be true peace without will, puppets were not truly men. The things temptation would do…

He met the youth months later in Acre, both of them on a mission for Malik, and it healed Altair's soul somehow to hear his unconditional praise one more time.

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**A/N - **fun fact: this was originally going to have one hell of a downer ending, but I was feeling too nice. Would it have been better if it was darker? Review and let me know and I might write some more AC fics.


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